To---

*tap tap tap* Is this thing on?

Hear ye, hear ye, THIS is true poetry:


Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory -
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.
-Percy B Shelly

Take note.